


Come A Little Bit Closer, You're My Kind Of Man

by violentdarlings



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, F/M, I have so much love for this pairing, Post-Deadpool (2016), Ugh THE FEELS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: "The first time, after he’s back, fucking Wade is like fucking a stranger, until it isn’t."





	Come A Little Bit Closer, You're My Kind Of Man

**Author's Note:**

> So Deadpool 2 inspired me to write the tag to Deadpool 1 that's I've wanted to write for the past two years. Oh my God, so good.
> 
> Title from the Sam Cooke song of the same name.

The first time, after he’s back, fucking Wade is like fucking a stranger, until it isn’t.

He refers to himself in the third person as Deadpool like, _the whole way_ back to the apartment, which isn’t as weird as Vanessa might have thought pre-Wade. If she forgets, just for a moment, that Deadpool is Wade – her sweet stupid fucked up Wade – then she’d still be hot for him, if they were two totally different people. Deadpool is crazy and weird and she only understands about half of the off the cuff references he makes, too fast to really follow, but she digs it. It’s just he’s not Wade, Wade who she loves, Wade who has to be in there somewhere underneath the scars and the crazy and those eyes.

He walks back into their home like he’s never been there before. Vanessa drops her jacket – _his_ jacket – on the chair. He’s put his mask back on again, for the journey. She can’t see his face. She hates it.

He knows she’s going to fuck him. She told him so, eighteen times on the way here when she just couldn’t keep herself, couldn’t keep her hands off him. His taxi driver friend had squirmed in the front seat and Wade shamelessly put his hand up her skirt. His gloved hand. He hasn’t yet touched her with his bare skin, but for that kiss. Vanessa wants more.

“This is weird,” he giggles. “Deadpool doesn’t usually make house calls.” Vanessa turns, raises an eyebrow like he used to be so jealous of. Not anymore. No more eyebrows for Wade.

“Babe,” she says softly. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t want to fuck Deadpool. I want you.”

The mask looks away, and there’s a nervous laugh that’s so Wade, and at the same time so not. “Yeah, well, the other guy’s not here right now, so you’re just gonna have to settle for Hulk –”

“You’re not Bruce Banner,” she cuts in. “You’re Wade. Take off the damn mask.”

The face of it looks at her like it’s alive, like this is all there is to him, this rough red fabric skin, those white, blank eyes. Like if she peels off the suit there won’t be a man in there, just a thing that spouts wicked, vicious one liners, black and viscous, constructed solely of spite. But the red hands come up, strangely slow like their strings have been cut, and there he is, her Wade, scarred and pink and so beloved, so dear.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and steps into the circle of his arms, getting her own around him so tight like she’s anchoring him to her, so he can never leave again. He’s so fucking strong now, ridiculously, he’s holding her up and she can let him take her weight, her hands scrabbling at his suit, trying to find a way into him even as she kisses him, desperately, wanting every bit of him inside of her, all the way to the bone.

“There’s tabs,” he mutters between kisses that scorch as her skin, and does some of them himself, one handed; Vanessa finds the rest. He steps out of the suit, naked as the day he was born; Vanessa smells blood and sweat, fear sweat, sharp in her nose like acid. She doesn’t care, doesn’t give a flying fuck. He’s here, after so long, when her memories went tattered around the edges, relived too many times, worn like an old photograph.

They’re on the bed. Maybe she pushed him and maybe they fell, it doesn’t matter, Vanessa’s lifting her skirt and pushing her panties aside, nudging the thick length on him against her. Wade groans like he’s been stabbed. “I can’t,” he says, sounding as wrecked as she feels. “Not like this, Jesus, I need a shower, I have murder juice on me oh fuck Ness, don’t stop –” She’s grinding against him lazily, every circle of her hips pushing his dick against her, and Wade stops arguing, pushes himself inside of her in a quick sharp motion that should hurt but it doesn’t, no, she doesn’t hurt.

She’s been hurting so long without him. This is the antithesis of that.

“I missed you,” he breathes like it’s a secret, and Vanessa grabs his ass, forcing him deeper into her, bucking up against him like a magnet to iron.

“I can _feel_ how much you missed me,” she replies, and scrapes her teeth along his jaw, sucks hard at his ear. He hasn’t changed what he likes; his skin is rougher, but he tastes the same and he sounds the same, punched out and breathless. Fuck what people say about missionary; Vanessa is hotter than she’s been in years, just with him inside of her, the grind of her clit against him, the heavy of his muscles and his wounded heart.

“Might not last,” Wade confesses, even quieter than before, and the cheek against her neck is warming like the heating skin is the only sign left of his blush. Vanessa runs her hands over the back of his head, the roundness of his skull, the pitting of his skin. She loves him, loves him, loves him. She’s going to love him until he remembers what it’s like not to be afraid, and then after. Then _always_.

“Don’t hold back,” she says, and Wade shudders on top of her, his hips jackhammering hard like her words have released him from himself, the most awful noise drawn out of him in staggered bursts, like an animal being tortured. His eyes are closed, and Vanessa cups her hands to his face; they fly open in shock, pupils dilated nearly to the brown. “It’s okay,” she whispers, and Wade chokes out a groan, his hips slamming sharp and hard before the rhythm goes erratic and his voice scrapes over a sound that might be her name, might be God, might be love.

She doesn’t need to hear it. She knows.

Wade likes to be petted after he comes, soothed, like a creature unnerved by the brief flash of divinity that is a really good orgasm. Vanessa wants to devour him alive, but she settles for stroking his back, just as textually unique as the rest of him, as the chest with its small, burnt nipples, as the raw flesh in places, like they are scars from before, tears in his skin that will remain painful. His eyes are closed again, his breathing slowly calming, the weight of him on her the best thing Vanessa can remember, his softening cock still sparking in her little flashing bursts of pleasure. She wants to rub herself against him like a cat in heat.

She hasn’t come. It doesn’t matter. Wade knows her, knows what she sounds like when she’s undone, and he’s kissing a ragged path down her body, lingering on her nipples, nibbling at her belly. Vanessa’s already sighing when he gets to where he’s going, his tongue on her clit, her labia, thrusting inside of her, the wet mess they’ve made, his come and her arousal.

That hasn’t changed. He always did like licking himself out of her.

“Wade, I’ll kill you if you ever leave me again,” she tells him, and those eyes, Christ, that flash of mischief and delight, that’s all him. She can love the parts of him that are Deadpool, can love them as dearly as the parts of him that are Wade. They’re the same, really. Maybe they always were.

He’s smiling at her with his eyes, and it’s like breathing again, after so long in that coffin, suffocating alive.

Vanessa writhes underneath Wade, and comes back to life.


End file.
